I look at myself—
not at what I did,
but at the thin current under it,
what carried me through
three hundred sixty-five turns.

All day people prepare.
Some will climb a hill
to meet the year’s first light.
Others will watch a silver ball
fall on a screen at midnight—
a hinge of seconds,
the door between breaths.

It lasts no time at all,
yet it gathers weight—
what closes,
what begins.

Far across the sea,
in Korea, 1905, Green Snake, the Eulsa year still lingers,
a shadow that knows its own name.
Ink once stiffened into iron.
A signature took a nation’s voice.
The sky dimmed—
not from weather,
but from shame.

Still, something held.
A small fire refused to go out.
Conscience kept its light.
Stars stayed where they were.

What was taken was taken.
What could not be taken stayed—
dignity buried deep,
waiting its season.

Here, on the last day
of the last week
of the last month,
after one hundred twenty years,
I stand knowing this:
time wounds,
and time heals.

2026, the Fire Horse is already moving—
not gently.
Sparks fly from its hooves.
It does not promise rest,
only motion.

Old shadows burn off.
Silence shows an edge of energy.
The heart, long cautious,
learns another shape.

This year remembers
what the embers were.
The tired breath finds room again.

In my own yard,
milestones gathered without asking—
a son turning forty,
fifty years of marriage,
a grandson born
on our golden day.

Moments stream past.
Two doors stand open:
to stay,
or to step.

That is all.

2026, the Fire Horse offers no ease—
only truth,
only movement,
only a life that chooses light.

And birthing—
yes, birthing too.
Fear narrows to a single cry.
The world receives you already moving.

You miss what was known.
You circle for balance.
Yet something larger carries you—
a breath beneath all beginnings.

Call it mystery.
Call it God.
Call it the quiet ground
that never stops turning.

— TaeHun Yoon